


The Promise

by CaptainCrozier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antarctica, Arctic, Body Horror, Cheating, Dresses, Flashbacks, Jealousy, Love, Love Letters, Love Triangles, M/M, Madness, Near Death Experiences, Penguins, Regret, Scurvy, Starvation, True Love, things we do for love, waiting for a slow death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCrozier/pseuds/CaptainCrozier
Summary: Years ago James Clark Ross and Francis Crozier made a promise to one another, but it was broken. Alone, Francis sailed to the North and drowned his broken heart in whisky. Now in 1848 Francis struggles to save the crews of Terror and Erebus and the life of one man in particular, James Fitzjames.But what happens when the past comes to your rescue?





	1. The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slowly creeping back into fic writing after 6 months away and some health issues. This might stop and start a bit so apologies I advance, I'm usually a fast updater but its taken weeks to do just these opening chapters! I cant resist a bit of Rossier and Fitzier though so why not chuck them all in together?!

Seaman Bates had arrived at a little past midnight, half frozen and pale with frostbite despite the speed with which he had dashed between ships. Fitzjames had him seated by _Erebus_ ’ stove shortly after his message was imparted, Goodsir tending to his nose and the men about him talking over weak tea and lukewarm biscuits. There was little movement between the ships these days, the cold burned in minutes, and those with more experience knew better than to risk crew on all but the most important of errands. This, therefore, Fitzjames reasoned, must have be as urgent as the boy described, a mission sanctioned by Lt. Little aboard _Terror_ in proxy of his captain.

_Christ, don’t let him be dying._

Bridgens bundled him into his slops, but he declined an escort, his instinct telling him one would not be welcomed, and discretion was of utmost importance. Neither crew knew the extent of Crozier’s illness nor its nature and the fewer mouths to wonder at this midnight flit the better. Besides, Fitzjames was sure he could traverse the ice much quicker alone than with some poor exhausted man dragged from his hammock in the middle of the night. He himself had hardly slept at all since all of this begun, the weight of full command heavy on his shoulders, and deprivation made him fairly buzz with restless energy. It lent him a sympathy he never thought he would feel for his First.

James Fitzjames stepped out onto the ice twenty minutes after Bates arrived and headed to the dim lights from the _Terror_.

\------- -------

‘Can you not sleep, my love?’

Ann was watching from the door, a silk dressing gown tight about her swollen belly, and her dark hair escaping its ties in wavy strands about her face.

‘Did the light disturb you?’

‘No,’ she smoothed the material of her gown and patted her bump, ‘but perhaps this one sensed your restlessness again, this is the third night you have not come to bed.’

Ross swept a hand over his brow, aching and furrowed. Before him the half-completed charts of the Northwest Passage lay pinned by callipers, navigational equipment and memoirs at each corner. He still held a pencil in his hand, but he had long since ceased the mark the paper. The limits of his considerable knowledge had been reached, and speculation was no comfort now, he needed to see for himself.

‘Lady Franklin is insistent,’ he began, and Ann’s breath tightened behind him, ‘Hear me out… she may be correct.’

‘James the Admiralty assure us all that the crew is well provisioned, they have over two years supplies remaining…’

‘That was Franklin’s plan,’ Ross countered, ‘And even Lady Janes admits he may have been in error. Three years total is the more likely figure, five if stretched, but I doubt he would have rationed the men so early, and he underestimates how hungry men become in that place, he always did. If they are beset, or heaven help us marching, they will require far more by way of provisions than he has catered for, and for there to be no word by now…. None at all… something is wrong, Ann.’

‘You yourself have sailed for three… even four years at a time…’

‘Not like this, not without sending word. In the South we returned to warmer climes each year to re-provision…’

‘But in the North…’ Ann began.

‘In the North I was away for four hard years,’

‘And yet you returned.’

Ross finally turned his gaze from the charts to face her, ‘Barely,’ he said, ‘By luck alone.’

‘Then luck be with the men now, James.’ She was steely, when she had to be, his beautiful wife. She had held on for years awaiting their marriage, a thorn in the side of her reluctant father, and she had fought for James, against parental disapproval, against his career, and against the rivals for his love. Finally she had won, by God, she had won, and a part of him admired her tenacity, but she would not win now.

Ross held her eye and tense silence ticked between them, the weight of his intent heavy in the air. Slowly the confidence drained from Ann’s face.

‘You promised me,’ she said at last, voice fragile, ‘No more, you said, you promised.’

‘There was another promise made,’ he turned back to the map, ‘Long ago… and I will not break it now.’

_____ _____

Little was in the Wardroom when Fitzjames arrived. With only four men aware of Francis’ condition, James knew the man had been taking his share of duties, as much to help Jopson as his Captain. The young steward was worn through after a week of non-stop care, barely eating or resting himself.

‘Thomas is with him again now,’ Edwards said, catching himself sharply, ‘I mean Mr Jopson, sir,’ he scrubbed at his jaw where a thick shadow of stubble was threatening to join forces with his sideburns.

‘At ease, Lieutenant, please,’ Fitzjames dropped his gloves and muffler onto the table as Edward seated himself again. ‘What has been happening?’

‘He’s not good, sir, Captain Crozier, and poor Thom… Mr Jopson he’s hardly had a wink of sleep himself. I said I’d take a few hours, so as to help him.’

‘Good of you,’ James said unfastening his slops.’ From the corner of his eye he saw movement within the Great Cabin.

‘He’s been taking seizures sir, had one tonight while I was tending to him.’

‘That is not good at all, has MacDonald seen to him?’

‘Not tonight, sir.’

‘Don’t you think… Ah, Mr Jopson,’ James broke off at the appearance of the exhausted looking steward.

‘Captain Fitzjames?’ The boy’s green eyes flicked to Lt Little, ‘Sir?’

‘I sent for him, Jopson.’

‘Why, sir?’ there was a hint of alarm Jopson seemed unable to quell.

‘It’s quite alright, Jopson,’ Fitzjames reassured, ‘I was awake and to be fair I ought to do my part, if there is some way I can aid you…’

‘No need, sir…’

‘Thomas,’ Edward hissed.

‘Why was I summoned?’ James asked.

The _Terror_ crewmates exchanged glances before Little blurted out his answer.

‘He was asking for you sir…’

‘You’re mistaken,’ Jopson said lowly.

Fitzjames knit his brow. ‘Would someone please explain to me what is going on?’

‘Coming round from his last seizure, sir, Captain Crozier was most distressed, he asked for you by name sir…’

Fitzjames glanced again at Jopson, whose high flush seemed to indicate shame or anger, perhaps even both, but whose polite tone gave away nothing.

‘Forgive me, Lt Little but the Captain says a good many things when he is unwell, I fear Captain Fitzjames has been brought here under false pretences.’

‘If I can be of help, I am quite content to see Francis,’ Fitzjames said suddenly, a surge of strange hope in his chest. ‘I am all too aware my duties have had me busy elsewhere this week. Perhaps there is something he needs to impart to me.’

‘No, sir…’ Jopson started.

‘He _asked_ for him, Thomas…’

Jopson bit his lip. ‘Begging your pardon, but this is the first time you have witnessed him in _extremis_ , I understand it is quite upsetting, and perhaps you misheard…’

But there was no mishearing the sound coming now from the Captain’s berth. A dull thud and something like a sob of pain, followed quickly on its heel by a single choked syllable.

‘ _James…._ ’

_____ ______

It was getting harder to surface, each wave of pain knocking him further from consciousness and the shadows of the berth around him increasingly indistinct, but he tried, by Christ he tried. Crozier grasped the blanket beneath his fists and used its rough weave to orientate himself. Blanket, bed, sheets damp with sweat, cold; Arctic, the wall at his back icy to the touch, his breath frozen where it condensed on planks and boards above his head. He knew this place, this berth, this room, better than he knew his own home, wherever that was. _Terror_.

Blink, there was a light, a candle or a lamp, level with his eyes but at a distance, upon his desk perhaps, casting its rays about a figure. A figure upon the _Terror_ , a figure in his berth.

‘James…’

His throat caught, voice rough from overuse, or underuse he could not tell. Was it hours or days he had lain there? Perhaps it was weeks. What day was it anyway? What month, which year? A rising panic as he could not pin the date or latitude. How could he navigate like this? The figure shifted. James. James will know.

‘James…’

Was he even speaking? He thought he could hear voices, perhaps they were just thoughts. Blink. The berth at once familiar and not. Was this version of the _Terror_ even real?

‘James…’

He tried to raise a hand, reach forward, but the world just flew away, teasing and coaxing, come forward, come here. It danced out of his grasp. The walls seemed to billow and across the floor a dark swathe of movement. Blink. Tiny, so tiny, so far away and yet, Crozier saw them moving, a column made of ants, dark and shiny, speckles on the planks below, marching o’er a threadbare rug. His head pounded; the walls turned. There was a pail nearby, half full of something frothy and a slick rag hanging from its edge. The smell, the stink of it. Christ he…

Lurching forward, his arm striking something hard, the thing went crashing to the side, a thud, a slide of metal, the pail now rolling o’er the planks and the ants, the ants marching, unperturbed, following their line, through the mess and the wet. He retched and added to it. Clinging to the bars of his bed, hair plastered to his forehead, spittle spilling o’er his chin. He coughed, glanced up, the lamp blinding and the figure gone.

No, wait, where… ‘James.’ This time, this time he felt as much as heard his voice within his throat, half choking.

And the sound of boots on wood beyond, the rattle of a door.

\------ ------

‘God almighty,’ he had not meant to exclaim but the sight before him was too pitiful not to be affecting. Even as he lingered by the door tor Crozier’s berth Jopson pushed past Fitzjames and dropped to his knees beside the bed, quite unfazed by vomitus and lord only knew what else spattered over the floor. James held his hand under his nose and tried to breathe away the stench as the steward efficiently rolled his Captain back amongst the bedding, cleaned the area, and righted the pail.

‘If you want to wait in the Cabin, Sir, ‘Jopson was saying between tasks, rolling back the blankets to reveal the stained nightshirt which covered Crozier beneath. He began unfastening its cuffs.

Quite suddenly James felt a surge of what could only be described as courage, but it was nothing like that he had shown in Shanghai. This was not for show or vanity, but for something much more primitive, essential. There was need here, his own or Francis’s he could not tell, but he could not simply quit. He had come this far, had he not, trudged across the ice at midnight and what’s more the man had asked for him in his hour of greatest vulnerability. He was damned if the trappings of illness would put him off this mission, Crozier had requested him and as his Second, he owed him that much. He ran his eye over Francis’ shivering form, even now trying to curl in upon itself as Jopson tugged up the nightshirt.

‘He is half delirious,’ James muttered.

‘Yes, sir, the withdrawal from the spirits is at its very worst now, it will be some days, Dr MacDonald says, before this phase will break.’

‘Is he in pain?’

‘A good deal, but he refuses the laudanum sir, won’t replace one habit with another.’

‘Is that wise.’

‘It is _brave,_ ’ Jopson corrected and pushed up from his knees. ‘If you’ll excuse me sir I need to bring fresh water.’

‘Of course,’

‘You may wait outside,’ the steward regarded him politely but firmly. ‘Until he is presentable.’

‘Ah…. Yes… of course… I should…’ James hesitated.

 _Brave._ This was not vulnerability but courage he saw before him.

‘James…’

Both men turned to look towards where Crozier, now stripped of the soiled shirt and tucked up under the blanket, was scrabbling again to reach the edge of the berth, to reach something or someone beyond.

‘Please… James…’

Fitzjames pulled a stool to and planted himself by the bed. ‘I will stay,’ he said glancing at Jopson warningly, ‘Lest he try and fling himself upon the floor once more. Please Mr Jopson, go about your business.’

\------ ------

Finally, a figure approached from beyond the bright light of the lamp and came level with him. Slender set with long thick hair, silhouetted darkly. Francis could not see his face, but it did not matter. A warm hand slipped over his own and it was enough. He could not see his smile or distinguish the tone of his voice, but the touch was soothing, familiar, and all that he had been seeking. He felt their fingers lace and the fight go from his body. He was no longer alone, James was there. He was there, as he had always been, through twenty other winters, through illness and fear. He was there.

Crozier closed his eyes and let the sickness take him, knowing that his protector would not let it take him far.


	2. The Promise

It was the dream that forced James Ross to finalise his plans. Too long had he put off the decision, in part for Ann, in part for his children, and in part at least for the fear of what he might find on that long voyage North. Frozen ships? Sunken wrecks? Long abandoned camps? Would there be anything to find at all? Death comes quickly in the Great White Nothing and Nature does not waste its boons. Bears and wolves might find his friends before he ever did, snow might fall and cover firepits, Eskimo might scavenge from long lost supplies. If he were to seek Francis, there might be nothing. Not even Hope.

But the dream spurred him on. Of their reunion years before, when half starved and weak with scurvy James Ross himself had dragged his dying body back from Fury Beach upon the _Isabella_. It was the first time in years he had sailed without Crozier, and four had passed without a word. The Irishman was half mad with worry. The two people he loved most both upon an Expedition said to be lost, and upon which three men had reportedly died. But not his friend Blanky, and not James.

He stormed into the Admiralty like a sea devil, drenched with rain, red hair soaked and darkened to mahogany about his face. In the dream Francis’ eyes were blazing like the fire in Ross’s rooms with all the heat and passion of their reunion. He was angry, but he was also full of fear. He shook with need. To curse the man who had left him and then to take him in his arms. Francis Crozier was as wretched as Ross would ever see him again.

‘You will not leave me,’ Francis seethed, ‘Nor I you. Never again. Promise me, James, no voyage shall see us parted now you are returned.’

Ross had promised, he had promise in life, and again now in his sleep. He promised with tears upon his cheeks, and they had sailed together thereafter, always, as constant and symbiotic as the moon and sun. If James had not married, he would be sailing with Francis now, but marriage was expected and desirable for a man of his position and he had evaded it long enough.

Francis devastated and pale faced by the altar as James took his bride. Francis whose smile never quite reached his eyes from that day on. Who sailed north in the spring on 1845 and never returned. James Ross knew the truth of it like lead within his heart; he had forced Francis to break their vows and go on alone, and one could not exist without the other.

James would find him now and bring him home. He would honour his word at last.

\-------- ---------

‘James…’

A squeeze, the palm of Francis’ hand sticky with fever. Fitzjames dragged his thumb over the knuckles and the grip relaxed.

‘I’m here,’ he assured and turned the page of his book.

It was routine now, a third night in the _Terror_ Captain’s berth, propped against the hull with a novel in one hand and his other upon Crozier’s person. Atop a blanket, latched lightly over the crook of an arm, or more often than not, as it was now, occupied with the fingers of his right hand. James read on, scarcely aware of the pattern he drew upon Francis’ skin, and anticipating the long hours of the night with a sense of peace. As dreadful as events were, as awful as it was to see Crozier seize and purge upon the sheets, the moments in between when the man lay sleeping were amongst the most tranquil which James had found for himself of late. The seizures were over and as the days passed, the pinch of pain in Crozier’s features seemed to ease. His dreams were softer, his sleep not quite as fitful, and in providing quiet company James felt he had done some good to ease the suffering.

‘James…’

He lowered the book. ‘Are you waking up, old man?’

He watched a thin smile cross Francis’ face, his eyes still closed.

‘Bloody cheek,’ he muttered, ‘I’m not that much older than you, you know….’

‘Forgive me if I shatter your delusion, but here is nigh on twenty years between us…’

‘I’ll admit I may feel a score older than you, James, but I’ll not have you meddle with the truth of it, birth dates… do not lie.’

‘Nor do looks,’ James chanced, bemused by Francis’s newfound easy humour.

‘Christ…’ Francis groaned, ‘Must I be at the mercy of your vanity even here upon my sick bed.’

James snorted, ‘Such is your penance, Francis, and mine for that matter. We are bound together upon this particular voyage…’

‘As we ever are,’ Francis squeezed his hand again, and then before James knew it had brought it to his lips. He pressed his roughened cheek against the palm and breathed out slowly. ‘I am grateful for you, James,’ he said. ‘God, I am so grateful.’

Fitzjames could not recover quickly enough for the beat to pass unnoticed and in the pause that followed Francis had opened his eyes to find him.

‘What… the?’ he released James’ hand. ‘What in hell are you doing here? Get out, get away!’

‘I… Francis?!’

Crozier was scrabbling to sit up but weakened by his illness managed only to half prop himself against the pillows, pale and sickly in the dim light. He fixed his Second with a wide-eyed stare, chest heaving and then after a moment tugged the blankets tight about him.

‘Get out,’ he ordered again.

Fitzjames stood automatically but did not leave. ‘Why?’

‘I said get out, what right have you to see me in this state!’

‘Francis, for God’s sake I’ve been here for days, I…’

‘Days? What… Out! Where is Jopson? What is happening? Who..?’

‘He’s resting, Francis, he…’

‘Stop it, just stop it, just get out! I thought… I thought you were… you called me… only he called me that… but you are not… you…’ and then with a half stifled sob, ‘ _please_.’

Fitzjames looked on in horror as the man he moments before had been peacefully tending to, curled in upon himself in agony. No longer a physical torment but a torment of the heart, it was clear to see him wrestling with shocked tears, a burn of shame rising on his cheeks. If James lingered but a moment more, he would witness Francis Crozier disintegrate entirely, right there before his stunned Second, his humiliation complete. He glanced quickly at the door of the berth, arguing with his own impulses, before sliding it to with a dull thud. He sat back down on the stool. Francis shirked away from him, face averted and slid back under his covers, his back to the room.

Fitzjames’ eyebrows floated high above their usual resting place he scooted forward on the stool in as decisive a manner as possible. Was this peculiar behaviour a part of the delirium or something quite separate? He considered a moment fetching the doctor but felt driven to investigate himself. Francis had been seeming to recover, had he not?

‘Francis,’

‘Go away.’

‘For God’s sake.’

Silence.

‘Will you at least tell me what this is all about? You were quite at ease mere minutes ago, and have been, may I add these last few nights while I have been in attendance…’

‘Wasn’t…’ a choke.

‘Yes, you were.’

‘No… it wasn’t… it wasn’t _you_ ….’

‘Of course it was me, I was here!’

A shuddering sigh but he was weakening. ‘I was mistaken. You called me ‘old man,’ I…. how dare you, get out.’

James rubbed both hands over his face in a gesture of despair.

‘I’ve called you worse than that Francis. Goodness I have been here these last three nights, and you have been more settled, I had thought as a direct result of my being here but…’

A snort.

‘Is that so ridiculous?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, If I had known it were you, I doubt I’d have been so… settled… as you put it.’

James raised his brows again. ‘Oh?’ he said curtly.

‘Oh, don’t get prissy… don’t pretend you even like me.’

A deep frown, ‘I had been more than willing to bury our differences, Francis but it would seem you… wait a moment, who in hell did you think was sitting here all this time?’

Silence.

‘Francis!’

Quietly. ‘Jopson.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘Fuck off, James.’

‘You called me by name, you bloody asked for me, ‘tis why I came here in the first place, walked her in the middle of the bloody night in a damn storm at your command!’

Francis span angrily in the bed and then immediately blanched, one hand coming to his mouth. James waited, arms folded, as though challenging him to be sick over his neatly pressed uniform and cream waistcoat. Crozier closed his eyes and slowly sagged back into the pillow.

‘Well,’ James said after a moment.

‘Why are you still here?’ Francis groaned.

‘Because three days ago, in the Godforsaken witching hour, my commanding officer requested my presence, by _name_.’

‘Your commanding officer just dismissed you.’

‘No, a boorish sweating Irishman, languishing half-dressed within his frankly putrid bunk told me to ‘Fuck off, James.’ He peered down his nose at his First and let their combined glare wrestle for a moment.

Crozier glowered at him. ‘Witching hour you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cold was it?’

‘I didn’t pause to check the thermometer at that time given the urgency of your summons, but yes, bloody freezing if you must know.’

‘Stupid of you to come,’ Francis said.

‘Very,’ James agreed.

‘And worse to stay.’

‘Probably, upon reflection, yes, if this is your thanks.’

Crozier smirked.

‘So,’ James asked still glaring down his nose at his superior, ‘Should I proceed? To ‘Fuck Off?’’ his tone capitalised the letters of his request.

Francis smiled just enough for the gap between his teeth to show and seconds later a rather high-pitched chuckle betrayed him. James felt his own face relax.

‘Please accept my apologies, James.’

‘Only if you tell me what that was all about.’

Francis sighed and shifted about in the bunk until he could face James comfortably. ‘Must I?’

‘It may help, you seemed rather anguished.’

Crozier looked at the ceiling. ‘How long have you known me now, am I not always anguished?’

James pursed his lips. ‘I have heard tell… that it was not always so.’

‘Hmmph,’ Francis’ laugh was small and painful, ‘No, it was not.’

‘A reputation for being almost jovial…,’ James went on.

‘Indeed.’

‘A prankster aboard a ship, something to do with penguins?’

A snort.

‘A veritable comedian and one not unwilling to don a costume at a Masque,’ James wheedled. Francis raised his eyebrow warningly.

‘Why the reports from the South were that the Two Captains of the Expedition were quite a hit in society,’ James said in response. ‘Full of wild tales and adventure, men and women clamoured for their time at balls and dinners, revels went on into the night,’ James raised one hand as though drawing fireworks through an Australian sky.

‘Yes,’ Francis said quietly and looked at his palms.

‘I think I would have liked that man, rather a lot,’ James coaxed softly. ‘Does any part of him still linger?’

‘No, James, he was lost some years ago.’

‘On account of Miss Cracroft?’ Fitzjames hazarded and to his surprise Francis sniffed in amusement.

‘Oh Christ, well yes I suppose at the time that’s what I told myself, told everybody, it’s what I wanted to believe. A universally acceptable form of heartbreak, a reason to slink off and lick my wounds at sea.’

James frowned, ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Sophia and I were never really suited, I knew it even then, but I hoped, I prayed that if she could only love me the way that Ann loved him, well I might cease to mourn the past entirely, and thrive as he had.’

‘Wait… Ann… Ann and _James Ross_?’

Francis nodded. Fitzjames watched his face with growing realisation and tiptoed round the topic as a man might scatter crumbs to lure a bird.

‘You…. He retired..’ he started.

‘He married, then he retired’ Francis corrected.

‘So could no more to sea…’

A nod.

‘And you..?’

‘And I went to Europe for a year,’ Francis replied. ‘And wrote morose letters full of half-truths and outright lies to anyone who would listen; to my family, to Sophia, to James. I drank and I wrote and tried to find a purpose, a direction, but every direction led back to London and…’ he coloured slightly, ‘to him.’ Skittishly Francis glanced at his Second trying to gauge his response, his expression strangely bare. ‘He drew me like a magnet and I could not stop. I had to leave, properly, for all our sakes.’

James’ heart was tripping in his chest at the confession, his throat felt tight, his eyes wet. The words themselves were mere approximations of events, but the sorrow in Francis’ face was one he had often felt himself, in a secret world of longing torn apart by the world’s expectations. Oh, he knew this kind of heartbreak, he knew it only too well.

‘I think I understand,’ James managed with a small nod and moved the stool a mite closer to the bed by way of expressing his solidarity somehow. It seemed to have the desired effect as the tension faded a little from Francis’ shoulders.

‘I came back after Italy, after their honeymoon,’ Francis went on in a rush, ‘and he was waiting, apologising for his folly, for his prior insensitivity, inviting me to stay at their very house, and I did, for a while, but Christ how was I supposed to bear it? How was I to watch him with his bride, or beg a little time of him without guilt. Had she not the right to claim her husband? She had waited so long, James, while he and I were at sea, while we….’ He breathed a shuddering breath. ‘I knew, she knew how…. Close we were… and yet she was never anything but kind. I had to be the same, I owed it to her, to him, to their children should they come along. There was no place for me any more…’

‘Francis,’ the picture growing clearer, James slipped one hand over Crozier’s again and once more found no resistance.

‘I thought you were him…’ Francis admitted, ‘These ships were ours longs before they were Sir Johns, _Erebus_ was his long before she was yours. He is in every shadow in every corner, he is everywhere, like a ghost, and I…. when I saw you by my bedside, I thought you were him…. I miss him James, I could speak of it to no-one, the pain of it, it never faded and when I saw you sitting there I…. I have been so lost without him, James, I have been _so_ lost.’

It took Fitzjames a moment to realise he was now seated on the bunk, his arm about his shaking friend, and only then it was when the first of Francis’ tears fell in time with his own, wet upon their joined hands.

\-------- --------

Crozier made an ugly noise in his throat as he attempted to clear it and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his nightshirt. Fitzjames handed him a ‘kerchief.

‘Sorry,’ Francis said again. James had lost count of the number and variety of apologies over the last hour, but once again patted the man’s shoulder in comfort. He wished Francis would give in to the temptation to lean against him for support, but he still sat stiffly next to him despite the arm James wrapped about his back. James leaned against the hull and stared at the underside of Francis’s shelves. Something caught his eyes there after a moment and with a thumbnail he traced the line of a capital J in the wood.

_J.C.R._

‘How long was your understanding?’ he asked absently.

‘Hmm?’

‘You and Ross, I recall a number of voyages you took together but, well as we have established by now I am considerably younger than you and…’

Francis huffed next to him, but a glance at his profile told James he was not being entirely serious.

‘Yes, yes I’m so ancient you cannot be expected to recall my history.’

James smirked. ‘So…?’

‘When I met him, he was twenty-one,’ Francis said with a hint of nostalgia, ‘I was twenty-five, though of course he already outranked me. A real shining star, while I grubbed about for years trying to impress, he was already strutting about on the quarterdeck.’

‘He did have some considerable advantages,’ James said.

‘Aye, charm was one of those, good looks another.’

‘I was thinking more of his heritage.’

‘That never got him anywhere. John Ross was harder on him than most, uncle or no. No, it was all brains and charisma and courage in spades.’

‘A proper hero,’ James commented, feeling suddenly rather said, ‘The genuine thing and all that.’ He watched as a soft smile crept over Francis’ lips and softer sentiment reached his eyes.

‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘he was.’

‘So your… friendship… it was immediate?’

‘No, no… I considered him an over privileged toff the first few months.’

James laughed at that. ‘This is all sounding a little familiar.’

‘Don’t get above yourself, your kindness is appreciated, but you are _still_ an overprivileged toff.’

James’ smile faded but a little, there was warmth between them now, ‘Ah, Francis, if only you knew, but that I think is a tale for another time.’ He patted Crozier’s hand and glanced up to find him frowning.

‘After what I have just divulged to you, James, you ought to know your secrets would be safe with me.’

‘I do,’ James said softly, his grip on Francis’ hand turning sensuous in its touch, ‘But there has been enough sadness for one evening, I think.’

For a moment Francis watched him with such intensity it was as though the man was reading his marks upon his very soul and then at once James was released from his scrutiny.

‘All right,’ Francis said gently, ‘Another time, enough is said for now, hmm? We have… an understanding I think.’

James smiled crookedly. Still propped against the hull, the blankets tangled about his legs and his nightshirt damp from tears, Francis Crozier did not look one inch the Captain of a great ship. His sandy hair was a curious mix of plastered sweat and mussed up tufts sticking at angles from his crown, and the skin about his cheeks and eyes were still puffy and reddened from emotion. Fitzjames could not resist but to try and smooth the strands back into place and dry his cheeks and for his part, Francis let himself be petted. This close, Crozier’s eyes had never looked so blue in all the time James had known him. Strip away his rank and his position, remove from him for just one moment the expectations of the world and this was what lay beneath. And it was beautiful. Twenty years James Ross had loved the man before him. Twenty years.

Fitzjames understood why in an instant, and he kissed him.

He felt Francis’ breath leave him slowly, achingly, as though he had held it since he stepped aboard the ship.

______ ______

On the 22nd April 1848 Francis Crozier gave the order to abandon _Terror_ and _Erebus_ , and on the 25th he and Fitzjames walked out together to the cairn upon King Williams Isle to leave word of their intention to proceed South to Back Fish River on the next day.

Captain James Fitzjames chose that day to tell Francis Crozier of his history. That he was a fraud and a bastard, and a man defined by only vanity. None of it mattered. Very little did, anymore. Except Francis.

And in Greenhithe Sir James Ross made preparations to sail North in a vessel wrestled from the reluctant Admiralty and sponsored by Lady Franklin. Her name was the _Enterprise._ The Arctic Council had advised him to wait until later in the season, feeling that the level of his concern was excessive, and the ships may yet return that summer. His wife Ann had pleaded the case to delay in the privacy of her chambers, for their third child was due in days.

But James Ross had waited long enough and his promise burned liked acid at his throat. He sailed the on the 27th.


	3. I Cannot Bear To Be Alone

_28 th December 1841, Antarctic Circle_

‘Captain Ross is aboard sir,’ Jopson announced by the door of the Great Cabin. Crozier, his feet planted upon a stool before the brazier hid his smile behind his book.

‘See him in, Thomas.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He had been expecting this all day. Ever since he had quit the command meeting upon _Erebus_ that morning and headed back to _Terror_ with nothing but a perfectly innocent diversion through the orlop by means of distraction.

James burst into the room slops only half undone and sweat already beading upon his brow from the rapid change in temperature.

‘Take that off you fool, you’ll faint,’ Francis said and Jopson moved to try and aid the Captain.

‘Now look here,’ Ross started, wrestling one arm free of his heavy coat to point accusingly at his second, ‘You probably think this is comical, but I’ve been personally cleaning up the chaos you unleashed upon my ship first thing for the greater part of the day and I do not appreciate a man in your position meddling in such a wantonly childish….’

Crozier tipped his head back and laughed, the book now clasped across his belly like a corset lest he herniate from hilarity.

‘Be quiet! Don’t you dare think that you can get away with this! You’re a bloody fool! All Hell has been let loose over there, you’ve no idea what I have had to contend with! And McCormick too, the pair of us have been fighting the damned creatures since eleven!’

Francis wiped his eyes, Ross finally managed to get out of his outwear and dumped his discarded coat at his feet. To one side of him Jopson’s eyes widened. The Captain and commander of the expedition entire wore only his shirt beneath, rolled to the elbows and open at the neck. His braces were visible, with no waistcoat to disguise them, his breeches quite crushed and jammed roughly into his most hard wearing of boots. With his usually smooth and well kept chestnut hair noticeably knotted, the man looked a fright.

‘You may leave us Jopson,’ Francis tittered.

‘No! you may not!’ Ross snapped. Jopson looked for a moment as though he might literally split into two ‘If you would be so kind as to bring me some hot water and a fresh shirt.’

‘Yes… sir.’ Francis nodded his assent at Thomas’ worried glance and the cabin door slid shut. At last Crozier set aside his reading and stood, tugging his clean and pressed waistcoat into place as he did so, and slowly circling his superior. He paused and eyes one shoulder of the shirt, picked at a stain with a fingernail.

‘Seem to have something on your collar,’ he commented.

Ross narrowed his eyes. ‘I wonder what it could be, Francis, what on earth could a ship’s Captain have all over his person after a day chasing a herd of bloody penguins around his lower decks?’

Crozier collapsed into laughter again. Ross shoved him.

‘A herd? A herd? IS that what we are calling them now. Surely they are a flock, James, they are birds after all not cattle?’

‘The damage they have done I’ll call them what I damn well please. A flock suggests something of a delicate nature, there was nothing delicate about these… these… monsters!’

Francis grinned. James glared at him a moment longer. The shirt, now that Francis was closer was smeared with something rather sticky and unpleasant, the smell was quite appallingly fishy, and whatever it was it seemed to have attracted every particle of dirt, fluff or feather from a ten yard radius. He glanced down at James’ hands.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he said suddenly alarmed. ‘Is that… Christ they didn’t actually hurt you did they man?’

Ross held up one hand, the creases of his palms and undersides of his nails quite clearly stained with blood.

‘James I’m… Christ I’m so sorry, I never thought,’ ever ounce of amusement left Francis in a second. ‘I thought they’d just run about a bit, squawking or whatever it is they do, shitting everywhere, I never dreamt they’d actually attack you!’

James looked away sullenly. He sniffed. ‘Yes, well we came here to study them didn’t we, we don’t know what they are like, that’s the _point_.’

‘But they’d been quite affable in their cages.’

‘Well they clearly thought differently once _out_ of their cages, didn’t they,’ James said.

‘Oh God,’ Francis groaned and gingerly placed his hands on both of Ross’ arms, ‘I’m so very apologetic James I…’

Ross stifled a laugh. Badly. He never was as good at this game as Francis and much more likely to be in a true temper when taunted. Crozier pushed him away in retribution.

‘You didn’t get hurt at all did you?’ Francis accused.

‘Well a tripped a few times, banged an elbow. I’ll have a few bruises I daresay. Had to wrestle the big one! And they are nippy blighters both in terms of speed and beak,’ He pointed at a curiously triangular bruise in the meat of his forearm, ‘But no they didn’t actually break the skin.’

‘Then what’s all this about then?’ Francis cried, gesturing at the bloodstains which he could now see extended to the man’s breeches.

‘I had to shoot the damn thing!’

‘What!?’

‘We got two back in the pen but the other two were trying to make for Freedom!’

‘They could hardly climb the damn ladder!’

‘No but they could get lost amongst the cable and stores. And I’d already spent hours battling number one and two…’

‘Which ones?’

‘What?’

‘Which did you shoot?’

‘The two out of the pens.’

‘But which _ones_ , James,’ Francis looked suddenly distressed.

‘The big one, and the smaller one with the nick in its wing.’

‘The tallest and…’ Francis looked pale. ‘You shot them!? Both of them? Dead?’

‘Of course, dead, I’ve been stuffing them all afternoon. Decided we are a lot safer taking them back as examples of taxidermy than keeping them alive on the ship where they make that bloody racket and shit on our supplies. What? What did you expect me to do?’

‘Well.. not kill them, James!’ Francis sank back into his chair. ‘Arthur and Mabel,’ he muttered.

‘Arthur and who?’

‘Mabel. She’s the one with the nick in her wing. Guinevere is closer to Arthur’s size.’

‘You named… the penguins?’ Ross sighed out. ‘You named the bloody penguins and then you set them loose for a joke and now….’

‘I didn’t think you’d _shoot_ them.’

‘They were going to be shot at some point!’

‘We could have got them back to Van Diemen’s land! Put them in a House of Curiosity.’

‘They’d probably pass out from the heat, Francis, no they were always going to be stuffed. It just happened sooner rather than later.’

‘Well don’t do the other two!’ Francis said sharply. ‘We’ll let them go. Take them back to the ice.’

The door slid open and Jopson appeared with a bowl of steaming water and a cloth. He deposited them on the washstand and then laid out a clean shirt on Francis’ bunk.

‘Will there be anything else, sirs?’

Francis waved a hand to decline but saw Ross catch the steward by the arm and whisper something about the store and, ‘the ones he likes best..’ Whatever Ross was doing though, Francis did not care. He’d grown rather fond of the stupid clumsy birds and as irritating as he was sure they could be he had not anticipated their deaths as a direct result of his silly prank. All he had intended was to liven things up a bit now that progress had slowed and the ice was creeping in. They’d be beset by New Year and devoid of all entertainment at this rate and he wanted to make the men smile. Chasing ridiculous penguins between stacks of rope had been an amusing image. James Ross gutting them and curing their skin did naught but turn his stomach.

He heard James splashing in the berth and in a minute or two he emerged in time to receive Jopson and his mysterious gift, before dismissing the boy for the evening. Francis stared into the brazier, two fingers resting upon his temples, feeling thoroughly miserable.

He felt hands upon his shoulders from behind.

‘I’m sorry I shot your penguins,’ James said tiredly.

Francis said nothing.

‘Really Frank you’re a Captain in the bloody navy how can you possibly get so distraught over a couple of lumpy birds?’

‘Shut up.’

‘It’s your own fault, old man,’ Ross muttered.

‘I bloody know that!’ Francis exploded and shot up from the chair, ‘Of course its my fault. I caught the damn things, I brought them here and I let them out. For a joke. And it backfired! If it wasn’t for me, they’d probably be nesting somewhere, or swimming about or doing whatever the fuck giant birds do! I’m not a soldier James, I’m in the Discovery Service. I’m not trained to kill, but to survive! And those things, it’s hard enough for them living out here I’ll credit, without us blundering in and taking their heads off with a musket! It’s so unnecessary, James it’s so…. Ah fuck it.’ He stormed over to his decanter and slopped out a measure of whiskey scolding himself as he poured. ‘Ridiculous business. Just a bird. I’m not a fucking child.’

He downed it in one. An arm slipped round his back and another placed a little box upon the drink’s cabinet. A glance told Francis its origin, a favoured chocolatier in London.

‘It’s the cherry ones,’ James said quietly as he moved behind him. Francis felt his nose at his neck, just where his collar pressed against the soft patch beneath his ear. Warm breath nuzzled his hairline then a pair of lips pressed the same spot apologetically. ‘I’m sorry about the birds.’

Francis sighed. What was done was done. It wasn’t as though he had never shot an animal in his days. He’d just developed a silly attachment, as sailors do to all manner of living creatures. Ships cats. Birds. Dogs. They were all doted on and petted by the men, because the men were lonely. They were all so bloody lonely out here for months on end.

He felt James slide one hand beneath his waistcoat, warm and firm.

Francis Crozier, could not bear to be lonely.

\--------- ---------

_December 28 th 1847, Arctic Circle_

‘Et Voila!’ Fitzjames drew forth the gold velvet gown with aplomb and held it under his chin. He stretched one arm out so the full finery of the costume could be appreciated and swayed his hips in the lamplight of Crozier’s berth. The Captain’s health had improved enormously but he was not quite well enough to return to duty yet. His mind however was a good deal more active than before and in need of stimulation beyond Jane Austen. James therefore had decided to keep him entertain this evening with something slightly different to their usual reading sessions.

‘The preparations are quite astounding Francis you should see them; the men have really put their backs into it. Its quite Shakespearean almost, like a fairy vale, the lights and murals and strange beasts they have formed from twine and wood, so I thought I’d go the whole hog, so to speak and arrive as Titania! I’ve a mask somewhere, here….’

James held the pretty face before his own and fluttered his eyelashes through its dead eyes.

‘No,’ Francis said. ‘Not that one.’

Fitzjames lowered the mask and looked at it accusingly. ‘Why not, of all the costumes it’s in very good condition given how old it must be and how many of these things it has been dragged through. I heard Sir John was quite the host in Van Diemen’s land, I suspect upon his ships he was the same, always thinking of the men’s morale. That’s when it occurred to me, the concept of it, and sure enough down in _Erebus’_ hold, a trunk packed with theatrical mysteries. I’d rather taken a shine to this one, the men will find it funny, and between you and I, I’ve a taste for theatre.’

‘Yes, yes James, the idea is all very well. The men do need a boost, just….’ Crozier chewed his lip, ‘Not that one. Please,’ he added.

The dress crumpled in James’ hand. ‘Well if bothers you that much…’

‘It’s not…’ Crozier stopped himself scrubbed his face with a palm. ‘I’m sorry I just… it has certain associations for me, that’s all.’

Fitzjames frowned and examined the bodice of the frock as though it might lend him some clue. Christ he felt so slow these last few nights? He had latched onto the nature of Francis’ old friendship with Ross easily enough ten days before, but God help him the cogs of his intellect seemed to be rotating at half speed of late.

‘Anything else James, just not that.’

‘Is it the dress, do you think it would be more seemly if I were to wear a masculine costume?’

A sigh. ‘No James, indeed the men would probably appreciate it in fun as you intend, they always have before.’

‘Before?’

‘You would not be the first Captain to dress as a fairy queen or similar,’ Francis said with a half smile, ‘By all means chose another gown and it will have my blessing but please, just, not that one.’ He looked meaningfully at James.

At last a light seemed to dawn. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘When I found them I assumed they were Sir Johns…’

Crozier shook his head slowly.

‘That trunk has been on this ship more than a decade James. Do you really Think Sir John would approve of _that_ kind of ball. Parties for the highest tiers of society to win their support for his next expedition, yes, gatherings where he might show off his pretty daughter or win a suitor for Miss Cracroft to his liking, yes. Masque balls upon ships were men dress as women and beasts and cavort like Bacchus to ring in the new year?’

The dress sagged lower in James hands ‘Ah, I suppose you’re right.’ He considered for a second more unsure what to do. Crozier patted the bed.

Fitzjames slid onto it next to him with the dress still clutched in one hand and Francis reached for it.

‘You’ll crush the velvet,’ he said, smoothing its bodice over his knee with a barely restrained longing. James watched his action with something like envy but for the first time he noted signs of wear at each seam.

‘You know I tried it earlier, it was a little loose on me and too short.’

‘He is a little broader than you in the chest.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ James said, then carefully, ‘I thought I could detect a cologne. It’s familiar to me but I cannot place it. Been driving me quite mad, do you think you might be kind enough to…’

Crozier brought the dress to his face and inhaled, eyes closed and for a moment James’ heart ached both for himself and for Francis in equal measure. He longed to offer comfort, press his lips to Francis’ skin, hold him close again against his body, but instead he let him take the time he needed with the empty gown and its long lost ghost. He knew Francis knew as well as he did, there was no cologne upon that dress, only the scent of memory.

When Crozier finally lowered the material to his lap it was damp with tears, but James was waiting.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, his arms around Francis’ body, strong and warm. He laid them both upon the mattress and felt Francis gather himself against his chest miserably. His fingers picked at the fastenings of James’ shirt, his lips suddenly hot at his neck with need. ‘Shh, it’s all right, Francis,’ James repeated. ‘Slowly, now. Slowly…’

‘Please,’ came the response, the kisses more insistent, ‘Please, James.’

A glimpse of gold between their bodies, crushed and worn.


	4. Second Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little changes to timelines around Carnivale and detox... call it artistic licence ;-)

_31 st May 1848, The Enterprise_

Halfway. Three years and twelve days since _Erebus_ and _Terror_ had set sail from Greenhithe and Sir James Ross was only halfway to Lancaster Sound. From there he planned to send search parties overland, South on Somerset Isle with dogs while he himself followed the sea as far as it allowed. He would leave no possibility unexplored. If only he could arrive there quicker.

The going had been good, the weather cold but the wind fair. He could not have asked for a more straight forward passage to date, but it was still too slow. The _Enterprise_ took up the lead while its sister ship _Investigator_ followed, Edward Bird in command. He was a good sailor, an old friend.

Sir James paused in his log and bit his lip.

There were many things he regretted when it came to Francis Crozier, but it seemed that he had lived the bulk of his days oblivious to most of them. Only now, when faced with the wall of silence since the departure of Franklin’s Expedition, had his conscience had time to process his sins. Only now in his absence did James truly appreciate the depth of his love for Francis, his place foremost in James' world. He would make it up to him, he would, if he could only find him.

He could not write another word that night.

_1 st January 1842, The Antarctic Circle_

There had been roars of appreciative laughter when Captain Crozier and Lady Ross chose to open the New Year’s ball with their quadrille and the surreal experience of gliding in snow boots across Antarctic ice polished to high shine by brushes earlier in the day was not lost on either. With a solemn face he struggled to keep in place, Francis took his role as seriously as he could, and walked his partner in time, past the other ‘couples,’ exchanging arms with the junior officers and their ‘ladies’ as the dance required. He caught James’ eye as he returned to him, his gloved hand slipping around the gold velvet of the dress the man wore over layers of woollen undergarments and in one fell swoop Lady Ross shattered his attempt at gravity with a suggestive wink. Grinning he exchanged arms once again and sent her packing to Lieutenants Bird, Chapman and Grey to take her turn with each.

Flags flew, men capered, music played. All was bright as the Southern Summer allowed no night, and the sun beat down at midnight with all the strength of day. Sailors in costume sat about on ice sofas and chairs while others propped up the ice bar of an impromptu pub built in the ice itself and stocked with barrels of rum and liquors kept chill by the environment alone. Crozier leant against it now, in the small hours of the morning that might well feel as afternoon, and sipped his whiskey, greatcoat over his formal uniform to keep the chill off. They had officially left the ball room an hour before, good naturedly pelted with snowballs by the men as they passed, and things were winding down a tad, although by the conversation about him it would seem the men were not done yet. It would seem some sort of sporting challenge was being planned for later, though he as Captain could probably afford to sidestep anything too undignified.

He chuckled and finished his glass. Because dancing with your First dressed as a girl, was a dignified business. Happily he took his leave of the stragglers and wandered, hands in pockets to where _Erebus_ waited, encased in the frozen sea. A wind nipped his face, where the alcohol had failed to warm him, but he would feel a different kind of heat soon.

‘James!’ he called automatically as he let himself into the Great Cabin. ‘James? Are you back? Or should I ask for Lady Ross only?’

Francis pulled off his gloves and hitched off the greatcoat, already feeling the effects of the brazier to one side. He warmed his fingers briefly o’er the flame and began to untie his cravat. There was a rustle of material from the direction of the berth.

‘James, dear, are you all right in there or can’t you get out your corset?’ he sniggered and unbuttoned his dress jacket. ‘Told you it was a step too far. Give me a moment to thaw and I’ll see to it for you.’

A bang from behind him as the sleeping berth’s door drew shut. Francis looked over his shoulder. Ross stood with his back to the door and his dress, while still very much on, very much unlaced.

‘Oh you’ve made a start I see,’ Francis smiled and stepped towards him, ‘I’m almost disappointed,’ he made a show of encircling the lady’s waist and dragging her into his arms. With a soft kiss to her neck he added in a whisper, ‘Though I admit I am a little short of patience tonight,’ Francis dropped a hand over the velvet hip of his quarry and began to hitch up the skirts.

‘Very funny Frank.’ James said curtly. ‘I’m going to get out of this thing and sleep. You should head back to _Terror_ , do the same. The men are planning some sort of festivity, they’ll expect us there later.’

Ross had stepped away just far enough to untangle himself from Francis but unfortunately in doing so he revealed the slatted window of the berth. Even in the poor day light coming from the illuminators above Francis could see movement within.

‘What in hell?’ he cried and wrenched back the door. There was a shuffling sound and in the dim he saw the whites of two eyes catch him. ‘Who the…?’

James had his hand on the door now, keen to slide it back into place but Francis was having none of it jamming himself in the entrance as his eyes adjusted. Gold epaulettes, an officer’s finery, and above the terrified gaze and burning cheeks, a mop of blonde unruly hair.

‘Bird,’ Crozier growled. He swung towards James.

‘What in God’s good name are you doing? Why? Tell me _why_?’

‘Francis calm down, it is not what it seems,’ James’ tone was almost bored and only served to incite him further.

‘Calm down? Why in Christ’s name I ought to…’ but he caught himself in time. The damage from such a situation was potentially enormous. He could see that in Bird’s horrified expression. He did not fear a jealous lover’s wrath he feared a senior officer catching him in an act of dirtiness. Nothing about the situation as it was incriminated Francis, only the two other men. The Captain of the _Terror_ had found his senior and his lieutenant engaged in drunken acts of indecency and the look upon Bird’s face indicated that he expected the lash.

James closed the door over and firmly walked Francis away.

‘You will go back to _Terror_ ,’ he hissed, ‘You will go back and you will say no more about this. I will reassure the lad his career isn’t over and you took it all as a joke.’

‘For fuck’s sake James,’ Francis heard the whine in his own angry tone. Ross’ grip tightened on his arm painfully.

‘You’ll do this, Frank, and you’ll forget all about it.’

‘Like last time I suppose,’

Ross flinched but only for the briefest of moments.

‘Why do you always do this?’ Francis asked.

‘Not now….’

‘But I love…’

‘Not _now,_ ’ that hiss again. ‘For fuck’s sake Francis just leave it be, you’re not a simpering fool, it’s not like you don’t get your share.’

He let go of him at last as walked heavily back to the berth, the damn dress dragging o’er the floor, slipped down from his shoulders to reveal the curve of his neck and the muscles of his back. Skin Francis had kissed a hundred times in their years together, thousands probably. He saw James glance up, eyes a cold blue in the Antarctic night.

‘Well?’ he prompted.

Francis sagged, nodded to himself and opened the door to the Great Cabin. The whole scene was ridiculous. An outsider would be appalled. The Admiralty would be apoplexic, and in the back of his own mind he could hear his family’s despair, horror and disappointment that he should ever land himself in such a perverted entanglement of the heart. His soul was surely damned the longer he insisted on treading this path, but he could not bring himself to stop.

Francis had spent his whole life being second best, never quite bright enough, never quite fast enough. Never the one to win the advantages or the love of a good woman. He had hoped at least that he had won James, but all too quickly he had found that to be a lie. The man knew the brothels in every port and was quick to celebrate his return to land. But never this, never while at sea, it had always only been Francis. Hadn’t it?

Francis had tried to justify it in so many ways. A beautiful man like James could afford to be extravagant with the pleasures of the flesh. A man like Crozier could not expect to satisfy him alone. He had lived with it, like he would live with it now, rather than risk rejection, because it was better than nothing. And because he loved him, more than life.

Francis would do anything for James, when it came to it, but the same could never be said for Ross.

He slid the door shut behind him and went back onto the ice. He was halfway back to _Terror_ before he even noticed the cold. His greatcoat was still aboard _Erebus._

\------------ ------------

_May 31 st 1848, Arctic Circle_

James Fitzjames was behind on his journal. Even the simplicity of daily entries, the soothingly therapeutic nature of recounting his thoughts and events, was becoming blindingly difficult. He had failed to fill it in since the first week of their march. He could not think anymore, as though every ounce of his strength each day was taken up by walking.

He flicked through pages, jogging memories as he did so. He remembered the party at New Year, the one he had been so excited for. He chose a different dress in the end, in red. Francis was well enough to join them, itched to in the end after his extended confinement upon _Terror_. Not that it was all sickness and hardship, James smiled at the memories. The broken, lost and fragile man he had comforted in those weeks had emerged quite reborn. No-one, Francis had told him one day, had ever been so constant for him in their affection. He knew it was petty, but James’ heart felt lighter. Ross seemed quite forgotten by the time they crossed the ice together for Carnivale.

They had danced, Francis’ hand around James waist, and their middles pressed together hard and their pupils wide. Right there in public, to the applause of all. He would have laughed about it later with Francis, danced in private in their berth and kissed the breath from him, but later never came to pass. Sometimes if he let his thoughts drift as he dragged overloaded boats over unforgiving shale, he remembered the sight and smell of fire.

He remembered first sunrise, a fortnight on, but when he leafed to the page in question, January 12th, he noted he had written only of first sun _set_ , and of those who never lived to see it. All the joy he’d briefly known upon their voyage had died and even the sun could not restore it.

He turned another page. The scurvy making itself known, early one day as he shaved in the mirror of his cabin. Usually Bridgens would have done it, but he was helping Dr Goodsir now as more and more men grew sick, and those still burnt needed tending. James had failed to sleep once more and so by lamplight that first February day, he decided to do the job himself. He was out of practice of course and nicked the skin. It bled and bled, it took an age to stop.

Francis had seen it before he had, in the roots of James’ hair as they had lain together, but he said nothing, just absorbed the fact. He only told him when James suspected himself, and then he reassured him in ways Dr Goodsir could not. Things seemed better when Francis explained. The pages of the journal flicked faster, each entry briefer than before and all about one man.

Francis had seen the bloody gums, and the bruises upon the men’s arms, and the sunkenness of eyes. He saw them as clearly as he saw the sundogs of the lengthening days and the dwindling of their supplies. He saw the lead in their food and the blown top cans in storage. He saw the bodies of their rescue party long dead in the snow. He saw Morfin mad with pain beg for death and blow his brains out in the centre of camp. He saw the creature tear open throats and suck on souls. Most recently he saw mutiny, betrayal, murder. Francis saw it all, and yet somehow offered solace, to the men, to James. What would he ever do without him, what if he should come to harm? What if he was lost to him somehow and never found?

He took up the pen again, turned to the first clear blank page, but his mind was blank, he could not write a word. James sighed, tossed the book away for good.

Francis looked up from the cot beside their little writing desk.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes… yes…’ James dismissed but the heat behind his eyes threatened to give away his sentiments.

‘James?’ warm blue eyes peered at him imploringly, ‘Come on, tell me.’

‘I love you, you know,’ James confessed and Francis’ eyes widened. ‘I know that’s not much, I mean look at me, half dead, haven’t washed properly in weeks, and I know you’ve done a lot better than me in the past… I mean, Ross,’ the named hurt to say it even now, ‘Most Handsome Man in the Navy, proper hero and all that,’ he joked, ‘but I do, love you, for what its worth… I just thought, you should know, in case…’

‘What’s all this daftness about Ross hmm?’ Francis soothed, ‘I have eyes only for you and as for your other concern,’ he looked at him earnestly, soul bare. ‘We will make it home, James. You and I. Together. I promise.’

James clasped Francis’ hand emphatically, but he couldn’t say the words.

‘There is still Hope,’ Francis said. ‘Don’t let go.’


	5. The Heart of it All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating slowly climbing towards M

_21 st June 1848, West of Port Leopold, Arctic Circle_

There was no way through. God’s Blood was this what Francis had been contending with all this time? The thermometers were barely rising above the point of freezing even in sunlight. The Ice looked curiously old and Robert Gardner, the Ice Master of the _Enterprise_ had confirmed Ross’ suspicions. There had been not thaw here this year, the Northern End of the Sound was blocked, and any ship south of it would be beset. How long had Franklin’s ships been here? Had they somehow made it through? James hoped but knew the truth of it, they would have sent news by now. No, somewhere in the vast and frozen valley that ought to have been clear water, his friend was trapped.

Turning back, James anchored both ships safely but as close as he could come to the pack. He would go South overland after all. It was what Crozier would have done, he knew the man’s thoughts better than his own on the subject. He only hoped that Franklin had agreed.

_March 13 th 1842 , Antarctic Ocean, South of Falkland._

Crozier was overseeing the construction of a new rudder when Ross came aboard _Terror_ that morning. Less than twenty-four hours before _Erebus_ had heaved to port to avoid being crushed by an Iceberg when _Terror_ lurched starboard and now the pair, battered and torn, sails ripped and rigging tangled floated on ironically peaceful seas while repairs were carried out. Francis leaned tiredly against the main mast while the men before him improvised with oak planks and eight-foot ice saws in place of proper materials.

‘Captain Crozier,’ James called striding aboard, ‘You appear to have left your anchor behind on my ship!’ he smiled good naturedly and a few of the crew about them laughed. _Terror_ ’s anchor was indeed embedded in the starboard hull of her sister, but could not be removed lest she cause a catastrophic leak. She would sail home, branded thus, until she could safely dock.

‘How rude of me,’ Francis said.

‘I consider it a gift,’ James replied, and them more quietly, ‘May we?’ he cocked his head at the hatch. Francis nodded and pushed off the mast sorely. It was some twenty-six hours or so since he had slept, and the fear and panic now draining from his muscles like treacle left him feeling weak. How in God’s name he had picked the moment to push through the tiny gap in the ice the night before, he would never know. The men were putting it down to divine inspiration, prayer and the mercy of God on the Sabbath morning. Francis being somewhat more agnostic was claiming blind luck and trembling inwardly at what might had happened had that failed. Still of everything that had come to pass his greatest fear was that he would see _Erebus_ destroyed, no blue light flare from her decks to signal safety. In the pitch black of the Antarctic night he would not even see her go down.

In the Great Cabin it was clear that James was just as shaken despite his cool demeanour on deck. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his curled hair stuck out at odd angles. He was pale, ghastly pale, and exhausted.

‘Sit down,’ Francis ordered and reached for brandy, ‘You’ll drink this and take a minute to recover, the state of you, honest to God.’

‘Have you seen yourself, old man?’ Ross smiled.

‘I can imagine,’ Crozier handed him the glass.

‘No, no… go, look now, I’ve never seen the like!’

Francis frowned and then in response to James’ continued urgings ducked into the berth to glimpse himself in the mirror.

‘Christ!’

Movement behind him, the scent of brandy over one shoulder and James leaned against his back and spoke to his reflection.

‘I’ve heard tell of it but never truly seen it. Overnight indeed! You’re… you’ve gone quite grey!’

Francis turned his head slowly and gauged the change in him. Until recently his image had always reflected a rich red head of hair, distinguished and receded at the temples perhaps, a lighter shade of strawberry blonde in places, but most definitely the same head of hair which he had always carried and singled him out so. Now the colour seemed to have washed from in in hours. Not quite the grey which James described, but paler than he had seen it before, he looked almost blonde.

‘How in hell’s name has it done that?’ Francis asked, turning to find himself in James’ arms.

‘Well they do say a fright…’

‘I did not get a fright.’

Ross raised his dark brows, ‘Oh, really.’

‘I was perfectly in control,’ Francis said, voice full of gravel from exhaustion.

‘Well obviously,’ Ross said, ‘I mean, so was I. Quite in control of the whole business. Darkness, icebergs, sister ship trying to rip my poor girl in two. Obviously, the pair of us were beautifully synchronised and planned throughout the whole business.’

Francis rested his forehead against James’ shoulder.

‘We came so fucking close…’

‘I know.’

‘We could both have… you could have…’

‘I _know,_ Francis.’

They stood for a moment slowly realising the true sense of the last few hours, and that each other’s embrace was growing tighter. James’ hands ran over Francis’ back in slow strokes, eventually making their way under his jacket, over his hips. They shifted subtly together, one of Francis thighs coming between James’ legs by habit, before he felt himself being nudged up against the wall of the berth.

‘Do we have time?’ Francis whispered as he felt urgent fingers unlace his breeches.

‘Important things to discuss, Captains’ business,’ Ross said.

‘But the men…’

‘Are all employed or recovering,’ hands inside his linens now, warm and firm, stroking. Francis’ breath caught and he made a soft mewing sound against James’ neck.

‘Please darling,’ Ross said, ‘I just want you.’

Not Bird, not some portside doxy, but Francis. He wanted Francis. Needed him, he could feel it in his heartbeat, hard and fast against his chest, in the hurried hitch of his breath. Crozier felt the heat surge through him suddenly and kissed blindly before him, lips wet upon James’, fingers wound within his hair. The desk beside them creaked with weight as they manoeuvred, pushing against one another, trying to win position. Francis wanted James atop of him, wanted to watch his face, look into his eyes, love him with all his heart. It happened so rarely that way, James’ usual preference to come at him from behind and Crozier almost expected it, at any moment, to be spun to brace himself against the wood, to feel his lover take him while grains of oak, too large and too close blocked his vision. He’d feel the usual flash of disappointment then recover with the pleasure of it and it would finish quickly as it always did leaving him part jubilant part empty.

‘On the bed,’ James panted, pulling back.

Francis did as ordered, turning away, readying himself, listening to James’ shirt fall to the floor behind him. The mattress moved and rough hands spun him, half heaved him up the bed.

‘Look at me,’ James said, pushing his breeches down about his knees. Francis reached for him, half expecting him to resist, but he came, pulling apart Crozier’s legs as he did so, pressing against him chest to chest, laying his forehead briefly over Francis’.

‘I love you,’ Crozier whispered and watched James’s eyes close. Ross was no good at this, he knew; Francis was well known to be a sentimental fool, even in the public eye. He’d been teased for the portraits of farewell he’d had commissioned at Van Diemen’s Land but he could never remember James confessing to his feelings, that was just the way he was, so Francis had to say it for both of them or not at all. ‘Thank God you are safe. Thank God,’ he kissed James lips, seized him hard against him. ‘I don’t think I’d survive without you, not after all this time.’

‘I promised did I not?’ James said unexpectedly and Francis looked at him, at his closed eyes and taut face, his voice irritable with vulnerability. ‘After Fury beach, I promised.’

‘You did, _we_ did,’ Francis let his fingers trace the line of James’ jaw, felt it tremble. He wanted to tell him everything would be all right, that they had survived, that the worst was past. He wanted to comfort him in all the ways he knew how; but James Ross was not one to be comforted, he only set his jaw and swallowed before moving his hand between them, letting desire take precedent over any sensibility.

But there were tears upon his lashes all the same.

14th July 1848, Arctic Circle

It took Fitzjames all his strength to hobble from his bed that evening, late on and close to the hour of twilight and aurora that served for night that summer. He could not however stand another minute under canvas. He, and the others who made up the dwindling numbers of Crozier’s men had been stopped for days, there upon the coast in a shallow cover overlooking ice. Still no thaw, no leads, no signs. The whole season would pass just as it had before, and before then. The land and sea unmoving.

He was sick. Very sick. Unable now to haul and old wounds reopened. Each night he would be patched and mended best Bridgens could. Dr Goodsir was gone, dragged off by Hickey and his mutineers. If they were even alive was a mystery. He suspected none of them would be soon. The land held nothing for them, no game, no birds, no fish. Supplies poisoned or inedible, dwindling to nothing. It was just a matter of time.

Time, Francis had said but a week before, that they still had, but even his resolve was weakening, his optimism tarnished. He never showed it to the men, never mentioned it to James, but it was there, in his face when he thought no-one was looking, in the tired lines about his eyes. They would never make it south and most now were too ill to walk. Men were dying in their sleep.

Jopson was in the command tent too now, they had economised on space to save hauling extra tents and poles, but a day of watching the lad sweat with fever and bleed about his gums had driven James now out to the cold, if only for the freshness of the air. The smell of death was everywhere.

Francis was on watch, one of the few who could manage, but even he was perched upon a boulder. His slops were loose about his shoulders, belted too tight at the waist and his gun propped beside him. Hunched and motionless he did not even notice James’ approach. If heaven forfend something more dangerous should stalk the camp he may not have time to reach for his weapon. James did not suppose it mattered much now. Such an attack might just put them from their misery and slow inevitable Fate.

‘Hello,’ James said. Francis looked up at him blearily, the light quite gone from his eyes. They had a grey tinge now in a too thin face, his skin rough and peeling, bleeding in places. He had remained so well for so long, but the scurvy was catching him quickly now. Slowly, so slowly he bent his head again and tried to shift to his left to give James room. James was thankful, his legs would barely hold him another moment.

They sat together silently, Francis’ head still bent and on his lap a tattered paper spread between his soiled hands. James squinted but the darkness in his vision combined with the dimming sun made it hard to see.

‘What have you there?’ he asked.

‘S’a letter,’ Francis said, voice hoarse, ‘Last he sent. S’nothing, I’m sorry.’ He made to fold it but fumbled with the creases.

‘From Ross?’

A stilted nod, a look of shame.

James reached a hand over Francis’ too thin wrist. Ross had not been mentioned in weeks but it did not surprise him now, here at the end, did not every man muse upon his life as the sun began to set. ‘It’s all right,’ he remarked and meant it.

‘I can’t see to read it anyway,’ Francis said with a sad smile, ‘Eyes are tired. I used to know it all by heart but now…’ he trailed off, the lost expression adding years to his worn face.

Fitzjames tasted the blood in his mouth and sighed. When there was Hope all his saw of the future was Francis, him and Francis, making it home. Making a home of sorts, and never returning to this God Forsaken place. They would never have the chance now, to know what might have been. Let Francis have the comfort of his past, of happier times. From the little James knew of Ross he had made mistakes, but he was not a bad man. He had liked him when they had met years ago, admired his record and his person. Where they all not just men? With flaws and sins and regret. Lord knew, he had regret, he had loves lost and errors made. He had hurt others and deceived, as well as cared. Ross like James, had pretences to keep up, duties to carry out, fears and desires he must repress. He had hurt Francis on many occasions, but he had also loved him, perhaps not with the fervour James did now, perhaps not selflessly or in the purest fashion, but who was Fitzjames to really judge. All that mattered was before him, sitting upon that rock, fading from the world. Francis needed him, and he needed Ross. That was just the way of it.

‘Give it here, I’ll see if I can do better,’ James said.

Francis hesitated. ‘I don’t read it to hurt you, James.’

‘I know.’

‘I just…. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again… I wanted…’

‘Give me the letter, Francis,’ James said kindly, ‘I’ll help you say goodbye.’

_June 1 st 1845, York_

_Dearest Frank_

_I am assured that this will reach you while docked in Disco or thereabouts courtesy of the whaling fleet, but I fear that after that we must wait ‘til your return for further communication. I do hope that you have time to reply before departure, but I understand if there are more pressing duties to attend to._

_We have missed your presence of course although young James is now nine months of age and offering a good deal more entertainment than mere squalling in his basket, but in terms of conversation and company you still have the slight edge._

_I jest, but part of me envies this expedition of yours, though I have no particular longing to see the North again and clearly my desire to go to sea has lessened since my marriage, but I did consider it, harder than you might think. I ought to make that clear, I did not dismiss it out of hand, in the same way that I did not dismiss you, old man, though you have argued to the contrary, and I know full well that you are bruised still by our last conversation. In truth I was surprised that you would go at all without me, I thought we had made a pact, but ah, let not this missive be but a tool to rekindle the fire of argument at this late stage. Rather let it reiterate, I did not declare myself retired to hurt you, dear Frank, and I wish you all success._

_Understand if you would that I am weary. I do not yearn for cramped conditions, frozen climes and bland victuals. I have no more desire to feel the lurch of sea beneath my feet nor break the crust of ice formed my washstand each morning so I might shave. My reason tells me these are things to be avoided at my age if at all possible and that I have done my share._ We _have done it, though you have been sorely robbed of credit as my second, but we do know the truth. Together you and I have discovered the mysteries of the South, volcanoes and great landscapes that no man has ever seen before._ We _have survived the unsurvivable as one. You should be sitting at this fireside with me, equally retired, but yet you chose the alternative. I struggle to grasp your reason, though Ann tells me it has a certain rationale._

_They say I must write my memoirs, but I have not the stomach to do so. My years at sea, no matter where we docked, in frozen wastes or on exotic islands, have been defined by you. Without you there is no story to be told and while I sit here in comfort, or bounce babes upon my knee, I picture you out there, with your charts and your instruments and I wish, for just one moment, I could but be with you again, and feel what it was we once felt in those places. The Society will be disappointed with my efforts. My tales will be simple, unembellished things, woven only from poorly recalled facts and dry ships logs. The heart of it all, of both of us, remains with you. It always did._

_May God guide you safely home,_

_James R._


	6. A Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, but here we are back in the Arctic and things are looking bleak.

August 2nd 1848, King Williams Land, Arctic Circle

Even with dogs they were cutting it fine for a safe return; the weather was cooling already, though in truth it had barely risen above freezing all summer. Ross had spotted some leads to the west of Somerset Isle the previous month, but they had closed quickly and he knew them to be the kind to lead only to a locked body of water not an open channel of sea. He pushed south and crossed the stubborn ice to King Williams Land, keeping his eye on the coast for any sign of thaw, or ships, or men.

What he found was a cairn and a note that struck the chill of the wind straight into his heart. _Terror_ and _Erebus_ icelocked to the north west, abandoned. Nine officers dead, including Franklin, and fifteen other men. Somewhere in this cursed and barren wasteland, Francis now commanded. Headed south, to Back’s Fish River, in search of rescue. He had no dogs, just men, and men who had spent three winters in the cold at that. The scurvy would be in them and what was worse, the fear, the drain of energies by bleak winds and unforgiving landscapes of rock and ice and snow. Sapped of all but hope, only to feel that wither too, their pace would be slow, crawl even to a halt. His own journey years ago to Fury Beach gave Ross a painful knowledge. Crozier’s men could not make it on foot alone o’er twice the distance, rescue must find them or their end would be an inevitable Fate. Despite the lengthening nights and approaching winter, Ross could not turn back. Not now.

Somewhere in this void the ships’ crews were waiting.

Francis’ familiar handwriting pointed out the way, and unfurling his charts Ross knew at once the route he would have followed, curving o’er the coastline of the land, searching for leads upon which to use his boats, and knowing that if none came he would cross the closest part of the channel to follow the River south. Ross lowered his telescope from the horizon, felt the burn of cold in his ungloved fingers and slowly pulled his mittens back in place. The dogs yowled at his feet in harness, impatient and agitated, keen to move on. His men waited for command, torn between their duty and their own sense of preservation. He could not blame them, to winter anywhere but the _Enterprise_ was a foolish course of action. They felt the press of time upon their backs. To loop back to the Sound in the north would take as long as it had taken them to reach this point, or longer, for the landscape was rough and rocky up the eastern coast. Winter would close her jaws long before they reached their base.

And yet if he chose to return, winter would close her jaws around Francis.

‘We push on,’ Ross said clearly, his back still to his men. ‘Lighten the load as much as we can, so that we might make hasty progress on return when the time comes, but for now, we move South.’

He turned and glanced at the silent faces, faces burned with frozen sunlight, roughened skin and squinting eyes, beards which grew unruly beneath mufflers. Ross looked between them and finally at the Ice Master lingering by the principle sled.

‘South,’ he repeated.

The man nodded, once.

August 4th 1848, Arctic Circle.

The silence was too loud and the irony was not lost on Fitzjames’ dim mind, even in the sluggishness of his half starved thought processes. On board the ships, even in the fairest weather, the noise was incessant. The creak and groan of timber or the rushing of the waves. The sound of rain upon the windows of the Great Cabin. Footsteps overhead and all around. Men talking and laughing, snoring in their hammocks or coughing in their sleep. The mornings would be heralded by the thud of supplies arriving at the stove, the clatter of utensils as the cook prepared their meal, as water was heated for washing, as the Captain’s steward knocked soundly on his cabin door. A ship was never silent, never empty, never lifeless. One never felt alone aboard a ship.

Fitzjames pulled the torn canvas tighter around his shoulders. He was on watch, though his ability to see was somewhat marred by the darkness in his vision and his tendency to doze. His shotgun lay to one side and in truth he knew that should he have to reach for it, the weak battle he would first have to have to extract himself from the abandoned tent cloth wrapped around his body for protection would prove too much. He was slow and clumsy, no strength in his limbs or in his heart to fight on now. It did not matter. He sat there only for show, to persuade Francis, delirious with sickness and fatigue, to go inside and rest, though even rest now held no promise of recovery. James realised with a sigh that he had encouraged Francis to sleep not so that he might regain stamina but so he might achieve oblivion, a few hours free of his environment and all the nothing it contained.

All the silence. Across from James the circle of tents was broken where one had collapsed in a gale some nights before. How many, he could not tell, time slipping through his fingers like sand. The canvas fluttered now in the low breeze, its edges lifting fractionally to reveal the dark below. To reveal then men who lay within in painful glimpses before closing over their bodies. The tents to either side were lifeless too, another storm and they might well collapse, their inhabitants no longer able to tend to their ties and poles. For long enough the pale days and twilight nights had echoed with the moans of the dying and James had prayed for relief from the sound, but the silence was far worse.

He realised he could not count who remained alive and who was dead. He had not moved amongst the camp in days, his world shrinking to the vicinity of the command tent and to Francis. Jopson was still within, half raving with sickness, his skin blanched yellow and black with bruising, his eyes bloodshot. Each breath he let out bubbled and stank, his crusted lips drawn back into a snarl. The scurvy would make monsters of them all, but yet Francis still tended him, like Jesus to the lepers, his focus upon the kind young man within the leaking shell. James, his own skin yellowing now beneath the thinning crown of hair upon his head, could not bear to look; his future writ for him to see in Jopson’s dying gaze.

In the distance a bird flew high above the land, borne up by the currents of the breeze. James watched and saw it joined by another, and another. Too far away, too high to shoot for game, they circled one another then flew off to the south, the last of summer’s creatures leaving Crozier’s men behind. Fitzjames let his eyes track them slowly, dark specks against grey sky and wished that he might follow carried only by the wind. Soon, he thought and felt the dry skin on his lips crack open as he smiled. Soon the last of his men would sail above the barren earth below, leave behind the torment of cruel and famished purgatory and fly to heaven. He watched the horizon, the low cool creeping sun; there were but days left for him in this cold forsaken world, and those would be filled with the agony of slow death. Why linger on to face it when the outcome was the same? To die would be a mercy, a release long overdue. God Himself would forgive.

Fitzjames eyes fell to his shotgun.

________ ________

Even in his dreams, Francis felt hunger. His brain parading banquets through his mind. Moist pink roasts and steaming vegetables, piles of fruit in silver bowls, extravagant sweets and elaborate centrepieces thick with royal icing, the very best of meals he had partaken of before and sulked his way through morosely in the company of Admirals. What he would do to be there now. He would tolerate a thousand pompous stories just to feast upon that fare. In his dream his stomach growled and contracted, a spasm so deep and painful his breath would hardly come. He reached towards platter filled with cheeses but as his fingers touched a wheel it vanished from his grasp. Crozier stared into polished silver, the slight uneven surface of the makeshift mirror twisting his features. He wore a neat blue uniform with the insignia of his rank upon each shoulder, but his face was that of death itself, the black of empty sockets staring back.

Crozier jerked awake to the noise of canvas billowing in the arctic wind, felt it wrap about his ears and lull him down back into sleep. Somewhere to the north his ship was floating soundless on a briefly thawing sea and its waves echoed empty in her bow and in his mind. _Terror_ just a memory, a drifting ghost from years long lost, the remnants of a life that was now ending. Wind and waves and empty cabins, echoes of voices he would never hear again. And somewhere far away the sound of gunshot.

________ ________

Something had replaced the birds on the horizon, it shimmered in the distance and James knew at once it was a trick. He had crossed desserts and walked through snow. He knew of the illusions which they cast for weary travellers. Pools of water when thirst was clawing at the tongue, scenes of shelter in a blizzard, dark ships of rescue in barren seas of ice. In the bleak white world of winter, he had even seen a man’s shape walk beside him in the snow, featureless and shadowed, but enough to trick the frozen mind into believing him a spirit. James’ lips twitched again and bled. Madness was creeping upon him now and soon he would rave like Jopson, know not reality from truth. Perhaps that was a mercy too, but madness could be terrifying. What mirage would a dying mind cast for him to witness in his final hours, a scene of heaven, home or hell?

He picked up the gun.

A howl from the horizon and James glanced up. Perhaps the creature was still out there, circling their camp. Perhaps it waited for them even now. Was it a mercy too, nature’s emissary sent to purge humanity’s mess from her wastes? Only weeks ago Fitzjames had fought to chase it off, fired rockets to its flesh, but now, ah how he welcomed it, if it had truly come.

‘Have at you then,’ James mumbled, and with difficulty stood, gun loose at his side, ‘You do me an honour, I think… come, greet us now, remove us from your world and cleanse this place.’

The shape on the horizon seemed closer. A slow growl reached Fitzjames’ ears. In all his years a mirage had never made a sound. The creature then, lumbering forward over broken shale. He found its silhouette against the westward sun and stared it down with lunacy.

It was moving at a steady pace. A flash of pale fur and a thunder of sound approaching at an angle through the silence, soon to cut across the far edge of the valley. A confusion of noise, a frustration of vision, alien amongst a quiet land. Fitzjames tried to squint against the brilliance of the setting sun, tried to focus his eyes and reason his thoughts.

The sound grew closer and transformed. Not now the sound of paws upon shale, the rhythm of a gallop, but a dragging underpinned with something hollow, broken by noises wrenched from living throats, a howl, a shout and suddenly the silhouette pulled free of dying sunlight and the shape broke into pieces, beasts and men.

For a moment in their midst a motionless male figure, tall upon a sled, sunset halo at his back, and keen eyes trained south. Three hundred, nay two hundred yards away, but unseeing as to what lay close by, the pale tents of Crozier’s camp merging with the shale and no fires burning.

James blinked once against the vision before it registered at last, a stab of joy and fear in equal measure. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he shouted frantic, gaze torn between rescue and the confines of the tent at which he stood, ‘Francis! Francis…! Wait! Ahoy! Ahoy there! _Please_!’

He staggered forward to catch their sight, voice broken, tattered canvas at his shoulders like a Fallen Angel’s wings. Dirt upon his face and hands and Death close on his heels, he felt it reach for him with cruel timing. He tried again to call but the taste of blood now filled his throat. His wasted limbs jerked, lungs closing. James grasped the gun in both frostbitten hands and lifted it as far as his muscles would allow. A flash of pain in his oozing bleeding arm, another at his heart as the wound upon his chest burst open and with his knees buckling and the darkness growing in his vision….

He fired.


End file.
